


this is the essence of love and failure

by misandrywitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x06, Bipolar Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re sick,” Mickey says. “Hospital,” Mickey says. And your body is numb and your heart is breaking and you run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the essence of love and failure

Mickey was always on your side about it. About the sickness. That’s what Fiona and Lip called it behind your back. You know they talk about it, talk about you when you aren’t around and sometimes they mention it to you. Polite, innocuous little questions about doctors and clinics and evaluations. You blow it off because you feel fine, you feel better than fine. The idea that there is _something wrong with you_ is so ridiculous. Mickey’s on your side. “He’s not sick anymore,” that’s what Mickey says.

 

Mickey is on your side until he isn’t.

 

 

 

 

The idea that you and Monica share anything other than genetics is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous. You repeat this to yourself over and over again, like a mantra to scare away the doubt.

_I’m not sick. I don’t have what Monica has. I’m not sick. I don’t have what Monica has._

You feel better. You bounce back. You’re happy—you and Mickey are happy, which is something you thought for a long time wouldn’t ever actually happen. You sleep in bed together and nobody seems to mind. You hold on to that, in the dark when you can’t sleep (you can’t sleep a lot, lately), how he feels solid as he breathes into the pillow next to you. Mickey snores. You take up the whole bed. You fight about it, in a happy way and it feels good and you’re okay now. There’s something good going, you and Mickey and Svetlana and Nika and the baby. You’re not sick.

 

 

 

 

All those things Monica’s done—you would never. Buying Debbie all those dolls with money she didn’t have. Climbing on the roof and calling herself a bird. Cutting up her wrists with the knife Kev had used to carve the turkey. You would never.

You remember seeing that, feeling the shock run through your body like a bomb and how red it all was, the blood, on the kitchen floor. She’d signed herself in for treatment, and then she’d taken off again (of course). You’d never do that to your family. You keep all your blood on the inside. It boils in there, but at least they don't have to clean it up. 

_I don’t have what Monica has._

 

 

 

 

You remember how it felt, that winter, coming down from that high. It was the drugs, some kind of crash from the drugs and everything that had happened, you can rationalize that later. At the time, though, you didn’t know how to do anything other than lie there. Breathing felt like work. Blinking felt like work. There were a few times where you wanted to cry but your body wouldn’t let you. It was like something heavy and old and hard had crawled into the cavity of your body, into your stomach, weighing you down and holding you still.

Mandy sat with you a lot, never really saying anything. Everyone else talked in whispers in the background and you could hear them but you didn’t even have enough energy to feel scared.

Just the drugs. You bounce back, you get better. You aren’t sick anymore. You don’t have what Monica has. Fucking genetics Russian roulette; that's Fiona, her logic and her reassurance. If any of you have it it's probably Carl. Fiona's the one who went on a bender, tried to kill Liam. Lip tried to run Frank over with a car once. What's the worst thing you've done-- joined the army? Had your heart broken? Run away for a while? What the fuck ever. 

 

 

 

 

You’re doing it for that family. Mickey needs money so you get it and it’s easy and not a big deal, and you don’t understand why he’s so mad. You did it for him. You've always done things for your family. It makes you feel good, useful, like you matter, like you mean something. Everyone always has the best intentions. 

 

You've always wanted to mean something. You thought you could do it, too, work and work, haul yourself up those bootstraps, drop and give me twenty, no arguments. But at basic--

You don't like to think about that. You carry your bruises on the inside. You keep your blood off the kitchen floor. 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you feel sick, though. You can feel it, an imbalance, a mad pendulum that you're being swung on and it makes you feel dizzy. You feel like you don't fit in your body. You can't get out of bed. You can't get yourself to fall asleep. 

_(And the man in the bathroom of the restaurant, Ian, what about that? A mistake, a mistake a mistake a--)_

There's something else living in your head, you're convinced of it sometimes. Something living that clicks and whirrs and digs around, running over the synapses and eating your neural impulses, something that's keeping you up, something that's pushing you down. A parasite. An insect, maybe. You don't tell anyone about it because that sounds crazy, that's the kind of thing crazy people say and you're not crazy. 

 

 

 

 

_I’m not sick._

That’s what you say when you start the car and buckle the baby into the back seat. _All our problems are disappearing,_ you say. _I can fix it. It’ll be better. I’m fine. I don’t have what Monica has._ You can’t remember the last time you felt this free.

You can’t stop laughing.

 _I didn’t know how important this was to you._ That’s what you said but what you meant was _Not you. Not this from you. I did this for you. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine--_

“You’re sick,” Mickey says. “Hospital,” Mickey says. And your body is numb and your heart is breaking and you run.

 

 

At least you bring the baby. When Monica, ran she never took any of you along. 

 

 

 

 

The highway unrolls under car wheels and you feel good but eventually you have to stop and then it gets blurry. The world closes in on you and nowhere is safe, there are cops and there are people and their faces don’t make sense. They want to hurt the baby, they’re trying to take the baby and Mickey will never forgive you if anything happens to him and you run, you can’t think and you run _Help me, help me, please, they’re trying to steal my baby! (I’m not sick) Don’t fucking lie to me! Please help me, please!_  

 

Something snaps. It’s been bending for a long time but it breaks and it’s brittle and cold and bright like cut glass in the sun except it’s inside you. It’s always been inside you. So much for the facts. So much for being better. So much for coming home. Genetics fucking Russian roulette. You run and run and run and you can never outrun her even when she isn't doing anything but bleeding all over the kitchen floor. _(I don't have what Monica has) I'm sorry-- I'm sorry-- I'm sorry--_

 

 

 

 

They arrest you and the baby won’t stop crying and everything aches. The inside of your brain aches. You keep asking for Mandy before you remember that Mandy’s gone. You keep asking if the baby’s safe.

Lip and Debbie and Carl and Mickey show up a few hours later. Lip’s face is crumpled, Carl’s is stone, Debbie holds onto you like she’s never going to let go. You think Mickey is going to hit you. You stole the kid—you stole his kid you stole the car you deserve to be smacked in the face after that you after you—you stole—you stole—

He touches your face and that’s like an anchor, his hand on your cheek and you hold on to him like you’re going to drown.

 

 

 

 

You say yes because you wake up in a car with your family and for a moment you feel like you’re dead, like there’s nothing left inside you but aches and guts, and that’s scary. Your head is resting on Mickey’s shoulder but you jerk upright and ramrod straight, military straight, like it’s embarrassing. He just looks tired. He shouldn’t want to look at you at all.

Debbie is sitting to your left, baby in her lap, and she holds your hand the rest of the drive back to the city. Her fingers are strong. It used to be the other way around (little sister, big brother). The baby is asleep. Lip is driving and he’s quiet for once.

 

You want Fiona. Well, really, you want your mother but that ship has sailed a long time ago and Fiona will have to do.

 

And you don’t want to say yes but you do, for them, for Mickey. It’s what they think is best and right now you don’t think you can argue. You almost agree. It might be easier if it didn’t make any sense at all, what you did, but you can still feel your own fear and it feels real. Your head is too full and Debbie’s fingers are tight around yours and you feel afraid.

 

 _There’s something wrong with me_. That’s the fear. _There’s something wrong with me and I can’t control it._

 

 

 

 

They want you to get help, but you know they barely know what that means and you know it won’t be that easy. There isn’t an on-off switch tucked away somewhere along your spine that’ll shut it off and then restart, virus free and good as new.

Fiona wraps her arms around your neck and says your name, says “Ian, Ian—“ into your shoulder and you know this is the right thing to do. For them. You love your family. You have to try.

_There’s something wrong with me. (No there isn’t. I’m fine. Everyone else has it wrong)._

If that’s true, why can’t you look Mickey in the eye?

 

You sign your name and you look at him and you have nothing to say. You want to say "hit me." You want to say "don't look at me like that." You want to apologize. You want to run. But you say nothing because if you open your mouth then blackness will just spill out. You can't. You keep your blood off the kitchen floor. 

You’ve never not known what to say to Mickey. You’ve always wanted him to say more, wanted to be closer, wanted something that felt real but now that you need to you can’t. There isn’t anything that you can say that’ll mean anything, it’ll never be enough. So you sign your name and brush past him and hold it in, hold on and hold on as hard as you can.

He doesn’t let you go that easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, his hands in your hair like they often are when you kiss, like the kiss at the club, like he can trap everything happening in there with the palm of his hand and calm it, make it better. He can’t. But he could if he would.

 

“Can I go in with him?” Mickey says and you hold onto his voice and how it feels in your head, how it fits in your heart. He shouldn’t be saying that. He shouldn’t want to follow you anymore. _Let me take care of him._

He can’t. He's crying. He pushes his face into your neck, hand against the base of your spine, and when you break away from him you think it’ll kill you. 

 

It doesn’t. The door closes behind you, and you walk down the hall.  

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from 'you are jeff' by richard siken
> 
> shittybknights.tumblr.com


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